Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Is there a way to prove this?”
“Gelidroot feeds off a dead body. After four days, the veins in a body become visible. If the person has consumed any, the veins will be green.”
“The grandmother is still in the constabulary.”
I shake my head. “We don’t have time to wait until she gets to the right stage of putrefaction. We must find out how long the refugees have, and start working on the antidote.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m convinced these cases are connected. The redcloaks sweated the same poison onto the grass. So . . .”
Quin stares at me with a grim set to his mouth. “Without more evidence behind your suspicions, you’ll never get authority from the head constable.”
“What is the law in the face of life and death?” I say, grabbing a dark cloak.
A bark of laughter. “Do you remember everything?”
I dig around the table for useful cutlery, making a good ruckus of it. When my cheeks cool, I turn to him observing me and fast decide an extra fork might be useful. “You don’t have to come with me—”
A chastising whack meets the back of my head, and Quin passes me for the door. “I know where to go.”
The redcloak memorial ground.
Rows of trees overhanging rows of epitaphs. There are sentries walking the enclosing walls, making sure no one disturbs the dead soldiers’ peace. And from the shadows of tall pines, where I hover with Quin, I feel the mystic energy that comes from protective wards.
“Why so many measures? A single mourning ribbon has folk shaking in their boots.”
“Our people might have massive respect for the dead, but our enemies do not.” Quin grimaces. “Soldiers from the southern kingdom slipped in as merchants, gathered in Hinsard, and quietly raided the memorial grounds for redcloak uniforms. They killed many of our men unawares with their disguise. After that these wards were placed along with sentries to keep watch.”
“I suppose that means sneaking in is a wee bit dangerous.”
“A wee bit.”
Putting aside ‘kill on sight’, even if the sentries only captured us, we’d be in trouble. Quin would surely lose his position as a constable and be thrown in prison, and I’d end up with him after harsh interrogation about poisoning the refugees—possibly as Nicostratus’s accomplice, which would throw him into the cells as well. It won’t matter how much I deny it, they’d have caught me exhuming bodies. That’s enough. It would close this headache of a case.
My stomach tightens and Quin eyes me questioningly. I let go of his sleeve that I unconsciously gripped and whisper, “Lives are at stake.”
He nods and shifts his robe, pulling the fabric higher up the side of his throat. Was that a flash of bruised skin?
I stare at the concealing fabric, urging it to move, but before it can, the two on-duty guards disappear around a wall and Quin hauls me with him over dew-kissed grass, to wrought iron gates adorned with circling wyverns that shimmer in the silvery moonlight. I tell myself to focus on them, not Quin’s neck—
He pushes his cane into my grip, and a soft glowing ball of magic steers my attention down his throat to his hands. He quietly curls his fingers around iron bars, and the mystic ward shivers. A wave of light briefly shines over us, illuminating his determined face—and the edge of the mark on his neck—and the ward peels open.
I startle at the squealing of hinges.
“Hurry,” Quin says.
I edge through the narrow gap, and he hobbles in silently after me, the gates closing with a muted clink. Before us is a sea of moon-speckled epitaphs, sitting under breeze-ruffled oaks. We slink through their shadows deep into the grounds. Quin leads the way, pausing occasionally behind trees, one hand gripping my arm as if readying himself to fly off with me at any moment. Though I imagine the rest of the wards would not make the escape go unnoticed . . .
We sneak around a small crypt, and the air suddenly stills in a way that has me shivering. Quin looks over to ask if I’m alright, and before I can nod stiffly, voices shatter the silence. “Must’ve misheard. Or it was a rat.”
Quin instinctively pulls me back behind the trunk of a large oak, hand balling with magic. My heart pounds in time with the thump of nearby footsteps.
“If that rat shows ‘imself, I’ll stab it right through the heart.”
“If I don’t get there first.” They laugh, and clomp past us. “Let’s head back to the others.”
I hold my breath until Quin nods us forward. I follow on with an erratic pulse to an exposed area of stone epitaphs that eventually turn into wooden ones. There are no trees to hide behind back here, and that knowledge weakens my knees. “I’m hiding behind you if they come back,” I say.